Where The Shadows Lie
by Fernstrike
Summary: Aragorn Elessar is dead, and Gondor is in mourning. One young man seeks solace from despair and legacy. Another leaves the drear of the city for Ithilien - and stumbles upon a vestige of an older, darker age.
1. Part I - Hallas

**A/N:** _Hello!_

 _It's been eons since I've posted anything. To get back in the groove, I decided to write up a little headcanon I had a while ago. Thought it would be fun; post-War of the Ring is always interesting._

 _The chapters are already written and are just being proofread, so updates will be regular. I expect to post everything within the fortnight._

 _I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

 _Fo.A. 120_

Part I - Hallas

On the fifth morning after the king's death, the sky is the lifeless dark grey of deep mountain stone. Hallas squints up at it as he leads his horse out of the stables. Here, beyond the hay and the other animals, he takes a deep breath of storm air. It stings with the cold of a dying year, and warms with smoke from fireplaces, and chills with the cool tang of rain. It is a smell as cold as the white, quiet walls around him.

He walks his horse down the cobbled roads, inlaid sporadically with marble, as if they didn't quite have enough to pave it all. His father had told him the upper levels shone with it; why it was not so here, he did not know. Neither did he know why the branches of the trees hung so low, with no richness of colour in their branches and leaves. What he did know, was that he could hardly stand it.

The people were in mourning, and it seemed the very buildings mourned with them. It was oppressive. Hallas didn't understand it; didn't understand why his grandfather had wept so openly, the day the Steward solemnly announced that King Elessar had given up his life. The man was old, his reign had been long. In his eighteen years of life, Hallas had had no reason to dislike him; but he could not fathom what greatness was held in the king that every elderly soul in Minas Tirith had chosen to make a procession towards the citadel every single day since it happened, bleary eyed, arms around each other and handkerchiefs pressed to their noses. He'd never seen the King; never even heard his voice. All he'd heard were his grandfather's stories, like every other child of Gondor with relatives as old as the white stone walls. A shadow and a war and a ring, or something like that. The old yarns of yesteryear.

Hallas passes through the southeastern gate, nodding to the guards on duty. Once he's descended the slope to the first level, he mounts his horse. The streets are wider here; there's more marble in them. There's more room to see the troubled sky. He hopes he will make it to Ithilien before it comes down; if it comes down. He nears the main gate, shining white with the strange dwarvish metal it is made of. Apparently it had once been made of wood. The gate on the second level still was.

He puts up his hood and fastens his cloak more securely around him. His fingers brush the wooden necklace around his neck - a good luck charm given to him at birth - and he feels a stab of guilt. Shouldn't have left mother all alone to comfort grandfather; shouldn't have left father to be sad in his own, strong way. But Hallas simply couldn't bear it. If he was unhappy enough to be callous, he'd have told anyone his own age that he simply did not care - and they'd have understood perfectly.

* * *

It takes him the better part of an hour to ride to Osgiliath. The roads across the Pelennor Fields and into the city are busy, with people coming to and going from Minas Tirith. Five days already, but still there are people arriving, even from other lands. He passes through unhindered, recognised by his own kinsmen. It is when he reaches the borders of Ithilien that he slows. The road is open, and travellers are not unwelcome; but one red-haired and one black-haired guard stand beside it, and raise a hand for him to halt.

He'd seen Wood Elves before, once or twice, passing through the city. Their leader was a friend of the King, he knew that much, and he governed these forests. The older people were always happy to see the elves, and sad when they left. Fewer and fewer were passing through the city these days; the last time he'd seen one himself was when he was nine years old.

As he approaches the guards, he dips his head in greeting. "Good day."

"You ride from Minas Tirith," observes the red-headed elf briskly; Hallas has no idea how he deduced that. "What is your purpose?"

"I simply wish to spend a day or two walking among the trees here." He shifts uncomfortably.

The black-haired elf raises one eyebrow. "Should you not be comforting your kinsmen, at a time like this?" he asks.

Hallas hesitates. What can he say? He does not know what they think of him, his people, the king.

"The mood in the city is tragic, to the point of being unbearable," he tries, carefully choosing his words. "I fear I'll be no use to my neighbours, if I'm bent over in grief. I would appreciate a respite."

The elf studies him for a moment, and then, to his utter incredulity, he snorts and steps aside. "You may pass."

Hallas is so bewildered, so confused, he simply thanks the two guards and carries on. As he traverses the road, he hears soft words from the elves behind him, in a speech he does not understand. The disappointment and sadness in their voices, however, is unmistakeable.

* * *

The fragrance of Ithilien, sweet with lilies and irises and pungent asphodel, is a welcome respite from the heavy, cold scents wrapping Minas Tirith. Hallas breathes the cool breeze in gratefully, watching the birds flit between the fair branches of the _lebethron_ shooting up tall and graceful on either side of the path. The yellow blossoms of the _culumalda_ hang low about him, trailing through his hair as he passes beneath them. He closes his eyes, relishing the relief from his sad old city. Time becomes irrelevant. His horse seeks out the paths instinctively, walking steadily and peacefully. He holds onto his horse, breathing in the warm, animal smell, and dozes on the creatures strong neck, cushioned by the mane.

It is only when his stomach begins to protest that he rouses himself. In the same moment that he realises he is awake, he realises that dusk is slowly descending. His horse is no longer walking steadily; it picks his way among the darkening trees and the strangely tangled bushes, whinnying quietly now and then. Hallas curses slightly, knowing he's gone several hours too far east, past all the elvish encampments, far from the fires he could surely share and the food they would most likely offer him.

His horse stops. Hallas gently kicks the animal's sides, but it refuses to move. It shifts on its feet, whinnying, trying to go backward. He tuts, annoyed, kicks it again more firmly, but it will not budge. He peers into the woods ahead. Above the trees, perhaps ten or more miles from where they stand, the dark mountains of the old kingdom beyond loom, quietly seething against the sky. The clouds above are the same steely grey as it is over the Pelennor, and the rain has only just begun to mist the peaks.

It is when he is looking in this direction that he sees the movement. A subtle twitch in the undergrowth; an conscious shuffling that could not be made by any tree or flower. A thrill steals up his neck, and he puts a hand on the dagger he carries on his belt. His horse whinnies again. Wisdom begs him to turn back.

He grimaces. Perhaps wisdom is simply fear.

He dismounts and walks the horse back a little ways, glancing periodically over his shoulder. Every few seconds, there is that shift, away in the trees. Small, non-threatening. He ties up his horse, fully aware that he is likely being very foolish, and proceeds towards it.

The dead leaves of autumn crackle under his feet, as he walks beneath the bare branches. Why do they drop so much more quickly and heavily than the trees in the western part of the forest? He glances side to side, but never removes his focus from the thing moving ahead of him. The land begins to slope upward. He nears a clearing, levelled into the side of the rise. At the end of it is a dark, narrow cleft in the hill. The ground is hard packed, littered with detritus and dark, mossy stone. The shuffling grows louder. He pulls his dagger from its sheath as he rounds the last bush before the rocky clearing.

 _"There's no need for that, you know."_

Hallas jumps a mile in the air. He can't hear the shuffling anymore; his heart is pounding too loudly in his ears. He drops into an instinctive, unpracticed crouch, his dagger up, his face hot.

 _"Relax,"_ purrs the same voice. _"I cannot harm you."_

He strains his ears to follow the sound. Squinting, he realises he can make out a figure sitting inside the cleft, cloaked in shadow. The only thing fully visible are its boots - dark leather, inlaid with simple elvish designs. Hallas relaxes, mentally kicking himself for his reaction. It was just another elf; perhaps a border guard, taking a rest.

"Why don't you show your face?" Hallas calls.

 _"Because I have no desire to,"_ the voice replies, smoothly. _"Come closer, it's not polite to shout."_

"It's not polite to hide yourself from those you speak to," Hallas counters.

The figure laughs, mirthlessly, and a shiver steals up Hallas' spine.

 _"You certainly have some nerve, to challenge someone you know nothing about,"_ it rasps. _"That is very admirable."_

Hallas blinks at the unexpected compliment - if that is what it is. He glances down self-consciously at the knife in his hands. Blushing, he lowers it, but does not sheath it. He tucks his hands behind his back and kicks at the slush of leaves on the ground.

"What is your name?"

 _"It's unimportant."_ Its tone is bitter. _"I am forgotten."_

"If you tell me, I shan't forget it."

 _"The nature of man is such that he will always relinquish his past; lose his faculties; understand, in the end, only the mud on his shoes and not the trail of prints he left behind him."_

Hallas doesn't know how to reply. There is a truth in the elf's words that enters his heart without leaving room for a doubt. He thinks about the old folk in their solemn processions up to the citadel, and lowers his gaze to the floor.

 _"Nor could he name the old chill that remains held in the walls of the city," it whispers._

Hallas' head whips up. "Excuse me?" It was as if the thing had read his mind.

 _"You come from Minas Tirith, do you not?"_

"How do you elves know such things?"

There is silence for a moment. Hallas is tempted to step forward, but he recalls the weight of the knife in his hand, the excess of autumn's slow death in this part of the forest. He stays in his place.

 _"You are afraid,"_ it observes.

"Like you said, I know nothing about you. Not your name, not your deeds."

 _"And you are wise to be sincere about it. Feigning knowledge is dangerous and dim-witted, especially when speaking to clever men."_

A minor flush of annoyance begins to heat up Hallas' collar. So many words and so little said. "Do you regularly lecture travellers that stumble upon your cleverness?" he scowls.

 _"My, am I getting on your nerves?"_ it says, sounding almost devastated. _"That should be my last intention. I simply saw the tree etched into the pommel of your saddle, and was so every eager to speak to a Gondorian."_

"Why so?"

The voice doesn't reply for a minute; then, its voice soft, it asks, _"Did your grandfather, or great-grandfather, ever tell you any stories about the old war?"_

"Just fireplace tales," Hallas shrugs.

 _"Old wives tales,"_ the voice mutters bitterly. _"Groundless deifying of old, departed heroes; worship of deeds so inconsequential that they are retired to myth only."_

Hallas doesn't like the elf, doesn't like his tone or his strange ways or the odd thoughts he relates. And yet it kindles a little animal inside him that he had long been trying to a quell; a little voice bouncing around with its fist in the air, quietly cheering, He's right! He's right!

"Many of the old folk saw the King as a living icon of the war," he says, matter-of-fact.

 _"They're as old and cold as the walls, what do they truly know?"_ the voice says. _"Elessar was not the only vestige of that time, and certainly not the one they ought to elevate to a pedestal."_

Had anybody else heard such words, even another elf, Hallas was sure they would have been dragged before the steward for treason and defamation. The harshness of the words mutes the incessant pining of that angry voice inside him; and yet he simply cannot silence it.

 _"I fought in that old war, you know,"_ whispers the voice, almost unintelligible. _"Like your King Elessar."_

"Oh." Hallas' heart sinks slightly. And so with his bitterness and his history, the King's death probably meant more to this old warrior than it did to Hallas, who himself had been the King's subject, of the same city, of the same race.

 _"I heard it whispered among the trees that he is dead,"_ says the voice. _"Is it true?"_

"Yes," Hallas mumbles. "Five days ago."

 _"I see."_

"Did you fight with him?" Hallas asks politely.

The voice lets out a sudden mirth-filled cackle and Hallas jumps; the sound grates against his nerves.

 _"If I had, I would certainly not be here now,"_ it says, gasping for air. _"No, little boy, I did not."_

Hallas shifts nervously. "But then who did you fight with?"

 _"I did not fight as a nameless piece of flesh in armour, child,"_ it says, the aggression of pride and willpower seeping into its tone. _"I did not fight for any kings or armies. I led them."_

* * *

 **A/N:** _If you are wondering why Hallas is such a negative Nancy, it's because I thought the premise of Tolkien's "A New Shadow" was interesting (if not disheartening). So I've made assumptions about how the youth of Gondor perceived the history of the War of the Ring - and those assumptions transformed swiftly into bitter points of view._

 _The next chapter should be up before Friday (21st Oct)._

 _Thank you for reading!_


	2. Part II - Eldarion

**A/N:** _Welcome to Part II! We leave Hallas for a while, to greet another Gondorian…_

 _As a side note, I belatedly recalled that Minis Tirith was referred to as Minas Anor in the Fourth Age. Sorry if that bothered anyone in the first chapter! I'll leave it as it is, however._ _Enjoy!_

* * *

Part II - Eldarion

Eldarion refills the wine on the table, then leans back in his chair with a sigh. "I suppose you'll be leaving soon."

The elf-prince sitting adjacent to him nods, sniffing the wine appreciatively before taking a sip. "The sea has been calling me since before your father claimed his crown," he says. "It is time to go now. I know it with certainty. I've already started building the ship for Gimli and myself."

And in that moment, it is real, and final. A stab of acute sadness pierces Eldarion's heart. He glances over to his mother, unresponsive by the window at the other end of the room. Her dark, bent outline is framed by the rain-blackened clouds outside. The downpour is yet to commence; it hovers over them, oppressive and depressing, a heavy discomfort that will not alleviate. A storm that refuses to pass.

He turns back, fighting the endless fatigue and sorrow of the last five days. Legolas and Gimli sailing across the sea was just one more trial to add to the list. One more departure. Two more of those closest to him gone, forever.

"I will miss you, both," he says solemnly and sincerely. He might have choked back a sob, had he not run dry of tears days ago.

Legolas smiles joylessly. "You will not have time to, my friend. This kingdom is yours to manage now."

"And I fear it's a duty that comes too soon."

"Your father prepared you well," he says, his voice firm with assurance. "Gave you all the effects of a king, taught you the ways of statecraft. He would not have given up his life if he did not think you were ready to assume his role. Take heart in that."

 _Well, for all his years of long life, he was not immortal,_ Eldarion thinks, bitterly. _If I was that old, in a city that did not need me anymore, sitting content in the knowledge that I had made it all come together, I would be ready to let go too._

He has long since stopped curling in to his sorrow. He feels only despair and a dull, throbbing anger in him. A question - _why?_ \- that remains unanswered. He looks back at Arwen. She had barely spoken since the first day; it was the only day she had held Eldarion, had let him cry with her. When they had brought his father's body to be embalmed - when they had prepared to move the wrapped corpse to the tomb - she had gone silent, and since then, almost no sound had left her lips.

He of all people can at least understand _most_ of her pain. The silence angers him. His father had always been patient, kind, and merry - somehow, in every situation - and now he was gone, and all those qualities were fled from their home. Only silence and grief remained.

He needs to say something. He an always count on his father's old friends for a listening ear and true sincerity.

"I can't get through to her," he mumbles, dropping his voice. He doesn't need to clarify who he is speaking of. "She will not see me. I try to comfort her, but she will not have any of it."

Legolas looks troubled, and when he speaks, there is an apprehensive, foreboding edge to his voice.

"Eldarion…elves only love once in their life," he says softly, looking towards Arwen's motionless shape by the window. "When that love departs this earth, it is the greatest loss for them - and it can be difficult for those who remain to get them back."

There is great sadness in his eyes, a haunted recognition that looks like memory, that says he understands Eldarion's helplessness.

"And you know the consequences of your mother's choice," Legolas continues, his words weighted. "There is no ship to bear her away from this grief. You must prepare yourself."

Eldarion knows, of course. He had grown up in two worlds.. His father, and his uncles, had taught him everything about the elves, and everything about what it meant to be a _peredhel_. He had never forgotten, and had never been allowed to.

He knows his time with his mother is limited now. But he cannot bear the thought of more tragedy. He cannot even consider it.

He raises his goblet to his lips - and, after taking a sip, decides to swallow a full gulp instead. Legolas eyes him carefully; Eldarion does not acknowledge the look.

"I had best retire for the night," Legolas says, rising. "If I am to journey home tomorrow, I'd like to be rested."

"Rest?" he raises an eyebrow. "You, who ran for three days and night after a pack of Uruk-Hai?"

"I, who did so with a single-minded Dúnadan and a Dwarf who complained incessantly," Legolas smiles.

For a moment, Eldarion permits himself to return it, briefly; but it quickly slips from his face. He rises, feeling as though his bones are rattling inside him, drawn up to stand and move against their will. He follows Legolas to the door, and hesitates before he speaks. He is a King - he cannot speak with such weakness, to anybody except his mother - and yet…

"Will you return to see us?" he asks quietly. "One more time, before you go?"

Legolas places a firm hand on Eldarion's shoulder. "There is no host nor force on this earth great enough to stop me," he says, looking steadily into the young King's eyes. "Take care of yourself. Let her do what she needs to find peace. I wish you nothing but good."

"Thank you, my friend."

Eldarion closes the door, turns to lean the back of his head, and then his whole weight, against it. The metal ringing his head is hard, and uncomfortable. He wears a circlet among those close to him; but it feels just as heavy and cumbersome as the great crown itself. He blinks dry, weary eyes.

The light is failing. The shadows crouch deep and dark in the corners of the room, waiting to swallow the tables and chairs and food and wine, and take Eldarion with them as well, take everything worldly until all that is left are the cold, white stone walls, waiting empty for anything at all to live in.

He looks to his mother. Surely this is an effigy, and not Arwen herself. She is so still, as if life has already slipped out of her.

 _"Nana,"_ he calls quietly. She does not move to suggest she has heard anything.

He steps forward and repeats the word, with more conviction. Still no response.

" _Nana,_ he has left us here," he says softly. "But he left us here together. Please say something."

He thinks he sees her chin shudder - her mouth open slightly - but then she slumps again.

A feels annoyance flicker inside him. "I cannot do this by myself _,_ " he urges. "No man is an island, remember _ada_ would say that? That includes you _and_ me. He had you at least."

Nothing.

"He's given me the effects and title of a king, nothing more," Eldarion presses, trying to make her think about him if she refuses to think about herself, frustration welling up inside him, exacerbating the grief that has long since settled in his bones and turning it to anger.

Arwen simply stares out the window, eyes glossy and lips still.

The words spill out before he can stop them, before he can choke them back. "The people are crying in the streets!" he shouts. "They weep his name and tell tales about Elessar, saviour of the Free Peoples! What use do they have of me? A generation from now those deeds will be nothing more than pages of text in the old tomes of the archive, and our family will be no more noble or Númenorean than those of the Third Age stewards! What will the House of Telcontar be other than a vague spot of nostalgia in the minds of those who remain to remember? What am I supposed to do with this crown, with his blood, in a world that no longer needs it?"

Whatever word or phrase it could have been, it finally works. Arwen turns, her hair whispering softly over her shoulders like a flurry of damp autumn leaves. Her eyes are red and small, her cheeks hollow and her skin pale; the tear tracks on her face have long since run dry.

"We fought those wars to live," she rasps. "Not to be remembered."

He breathes deeply. Her eyes bore into him, imploring him to accept even when he cannot understand.

"And now you curse the dead instead of mourn," she condemns.

"The dead?" he hisses. Those long-spent tears seem to be refreshing, stinging at his eyes. "'The dead' is my father _, nana._ The dead is our king. Now both have left us and you bid me not to curse?"

He doesn't ask the one thought that lingers in his mind, presiding over his every move like a vulture on his shoulder. _Who am I without him?_

"If you have lost yourself so much," his mother whispers, almost knowingly, "until you think the world no longer needs your blood, then perhaps you are not long for it."

The words strike cold and deadly inside him, and Legolas' warning comes rushing back to him. _You must prepare yourself._

"Do you think the world no longer needs _you,_ then?" he asks softly. He cannot breathe, lest the knot in his throat come undone and a sob escape.

But for today, her words are spent. She presses her lips into a thin, bloodless line, and turns back to the window, veiling herself with her night-dark hair.

* * *

Eldarion walks swiftly through the hallways of the House of Kings. The decision had been split-second, the moment he'd shut the door without bidding his mother farewell. He felt guilty for it - but his anger had been thoroughly quenched by her dark words, and he knew not what to say to her, nor what to think of himself.

It was not wise, perhaps, to go directly to Legolas; he had already retired, sleeping or not - and more importantly, he was almost certain to try and dissuade Eldarion. So the new King - _heavens, the title is so foreign_ \- accosts the nearest servant, and bids him take a message to the Elven prince.

"Please inform him that I will be accompanying him to Ithilien in the morrow," he murmurs. The man bows his head gently and moves off in the direction of the guest chambers, where Legolas is residing.

The matter sorted, Eldarion feels the energy drain out of him. His clothes feel too big on him, and heavy. His long cape whispers darkly where it trails over the floor, as he turns to repair to his bedroom.

* * *

Night falls at last upon Gondor, as does the rain. The moon is new and the clouds are heavy, and the darkness is so thick and pervasive that it seems to breathe, lurking and living where the shadows are deepest. Eldarion thinks he can almost smell it, hidden within the cool scent of rain and petrichor, as he steps into his room.

Despite the blazing fire that has been prepared in his chambers, he feels cold. He shrugs off his outer clothing, too tired to place it over a chair or to change into nightclothes. He crawls into the bed, too large, unnecessarily so. The covers are thick around him, but the warmth they give does not feel real. He burrows into them, wrapping himself up in the thick, fluffy fabrics and furs. If he could stay here, without ever having to go out and face grief and legacy and this widening expanse of loneliness around him, he might remember what it was to be happy - before the crown had fallen down onto his head, before his father had left him and his mother too soon, forever too soon…

There is a scraping at his window. Eldarion's eyes shoot open, and he looks toward the glass panes. They are shuttered against wind and cold, the rain lashing ceaselessly against them.

He half-rises from the bed, looking out. The darkness gapes its cavernous maw on the other side of the window frame. The only light to be seen is the fire reflecting off the water droplets striking against the glass. He strains his ears, peering in the half-light, looking to see if whatever made the noise will make it again.

It had sounded like something shuffling about on the windowsill; a bird, sheltering from the worst of the wind and rain? Somehow, however, the shadows lurking just outside his room feel too alive to let anything living take refuge where it chooses to reside.

Eldarion lays himself back down on the bed, his mind troubled once more. When the storm is over, it will be light again. The earth will be new, quenched, even in the waning of the year. As it always was. There would be no storm for him to struggle through; only a quiet peace to preside over. His father's peace.

And he knows that all his anger, all his feeling of inadequacy, every part that is making this about himself and his turn to rule, is just his way of laying blame on something other than mortality and time, of lashing out at the dead because there is nothing else to do. It is too much to say - _ada, I miss you, and I wish you were still here._

He feels himself begin to weep again, and lets it happen. He cries quietly into his pillow, as the rain rages outside and the shadows lie dormant.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Do forgive me if any of this seems out of character, or going against the grain of continuity. I like to think that it's useful to inject some imperfection and cynicism into the ending of 'Return of the King', and into Aragorn's history thereafter (as recounted in the Appendices). Neatly tied up endings to characters' stories are lovely, yet so much more delicious for fics when they are more bitter than sweet._

 _The next chapter should be up before Monday (24th Oct)._

 _Thank you for reading!_


	3. Part III - Hallas

**A/N:** _Welcome to Part III, and apologies for the delay! Midterms caught up with me (along with an unexpected Halloween party that I was rushing to prepare for!). We are back with Hallas, and the mysterious voice…_

* * *

Part III - Hallas

Dusk has fallen, heavy and thick, over the forests of Ithilien. The rain has begun to fall here. Hallas moves closer to the cave, beneath the shadowing trees, puling his hood up over his head. Wisdom guiding him or not, he cannot go now. His eyes strain slightly in the half-light, to look at the cleft in the rock. The figure is even more cloaked in shadow now; only the toes of his boots peek out to where there is any light.

Hallas sits cross-legged on the ground. He turns his head to the side. "So you were a commander?"

 _"Yes,"_ the voice whispers, and he can almost hear the smirk in its tone. _"I commanded vast armies to march across the Morannon in the final battle. I led sieges against the great fortresses of the enemy."_

Hallas raises an eyebrow. "You commanded vast armies?"

 _"People came from across Middle Earth to fight in my name."_

Hallas looks at the simple, beaten brown boots and comes to two conclusions. Either this elf is telling the truth, and he is right to feel humbled; or the fellow is an old, deluded warrior, creating stories from his age and his grief.

There is a little stone of disquiet, sitting silent and nervous in his gut. But somehow, whether by that strange kinship he feels between them at their shared, bitter thoughts, or whether by something else that is nameless, Hallas is inclined to believe the warrior's words.

His sincerity tugs at Hallas, drawing him closer toward the mouth of the cave.

 _"No further,"_ the voice hisses sharply.

"Are you wounded?" he asks. He can't believe he hadn't thought to check before. "Is that why you hide yourself?"

 _"In a way,"_ it mumbles, the dripping sorrow in its voice stirring pity in Hallas' heart. _"Mine are wounds you cannot see nor understand."_

So perhaps the latter assessment was more correct, after all - an old, grieving warrior, defeated by time and memory. His deeds forgotten, by the selfsame generation that Hallas was a part of. Guilt mixes with the other emotions clouding his thought.

"We owe you a great deal," he mumbles, not knowing what exactly to say.

There is a sound like false, muffled laughter from the cleft in the rock. _"For what, exactly? I've heard of the dereliction of your city. The coldness of it."_

"It's not derelict," he says, defensively, at the same time doubting his words.

 _"Then where is the marble in the streets?"_ it presses. _"Why do the upper levels shine brighter in the sunlight, glow greener in the spring? Why was your gate remade in mithril in a time of peace - who paid for such a useless thing?"_

"It was supposed to be beautiful," he says, quietly, not believing a word. "A monument of strength after the war."

 _"Perhaps you listen to more stories, indeed, than you think,"_ it scoffs. _"Why do you need a Dwarven gate and elven trees to prove that the most powerful Man in the West was strong?"_

And try as he might to quell it, that little beast inside him that stands in solidarity with such words is clawing its way up and into his mind. Its claws are truths, clutching at his thoughts and doubts and prodding them with the unwanted reality - he's right, you know; he's right. What were these glory days, and what did they leave for the future besides stories? If such great triumph was had, why did it not exist in every square inch of the city? Truly, its greatness was nothing more than that which the songs had given it.

The rain falls heavy on him now, measured and certain, like the understanding taking place within him. No matter how it phrased its thoughts, or its unsettling secretiveness, the voice was speaking truth. And Hallas has to make things right for it some how.

"Why don't you come with me," he says, slowly, "Back to Minas Tirith? The new King, he could tell everyone who you are. They will help you, and then they will listen to you, and we could change things -"

 _"No,"_ it says, fierce and quick. _"I will not leave my place here."_

As if sensing, the tension that has jumped into Hallas' shoulders, and the confusion written on his face, the tone of the voice softens. "Go back to you city," it says softly _"Tell your friends about me. They can come and visit, if they like. I will tell you the stories of what I did. I will show you that old greatness; what it really is, what it truly means. I will not leave my place here, but they can come here freely and listen."_

He hesitates. "I would like to tell them."

 _"You should."_

"But I won't leave you alone, if you're hurt."

 _"Please, boy. I have lived for many a year with my wounds and am not the worse for it. If I only I could tell my stories to the youth of your city, perhaps I would find peace. I could be the root of a history more real for them - something worth being remembered."_

"Then…I suppose I can bring them," he stalls, doubtful. The figure is sitting awfully still; whatever old injury it was must be quite crippling.

"There's nothing to fear," Hallas insists.

 _"I will not come."_ Impatience spikes in its words.

"Please," he tries, one last time, rising. "Let me help you!"

He steps forward, stretching his hand into the darkness. He makes contact with a cold shoulder plate. Then the figure lurches suddenly forward from the shadows, falling like a heavy stone, knocking him down.

Dazed, he grabs the elf's shoulders - and looks straight into maggot-filled eye sockets.

Hallas screams, scrambling backward. The corpse flops to the ground before him, paler than death, the rot and more already beginning to eat away at the clothes and the flesh. The rain splashes heavy onto a white face, running over a throat that is blackened with something that is not ash or decay.

From behind it, a twisting, roiling mass of shadow approaches. It is small, and moves slowly, as if crawling laboriously upon the ground, but it sucks away what little light is left filtering into the clearing. It is menace, rage, pain and futility, staring directly into his soul. It reeks of death and defeat, like the ashes and smoke of a fire built on foul, rotten wood.

There is no more sound coming from his mouth, though the muscles of his throat are still straining. He feels something warm trickle down between his legs onto the barren soil beneath him.

The entity growls, its full, horrid voice unmasked and unfettered.

 _"Foolish boy,"_ it growls. _"Had you listened and done as you should, you might have had a better chance of living. Unlike this idiotic creature."_

Hallas whimpers, staring at the decaying corpse of the young elf, its face turned blankly to the sky.

 _"He had just barely come of age,"_ the shadow says, in false lamentation. _"A mere child whose life was given to him directly after the war, by parents who thought he could receive it without harm. Pity. Yesterday was his first on the watch."_

The shadowy manifestation swarms around him. He can feel both weakness and anger pulsing out from it, the latter so much more potent.

 _"I learned much from that war that I had forgotten in millennia past,"_ it hisses, clinging to the edges, beginning to circle him. _"Why break upon the fortresses of your enemy like water on rock, when you can simply flood their home and drown them from inside? A fool I was, but not again. It takes great loss to remember how to gain."_

Hallas finally finds his voice. "I don't understand," he chokes out.

 _"It would have been best that way."_

Hallas' hand jumps to his wooden necklace, clutching it, calling forth the image of his parents, searching for strength. He'd left them in impatience and frustration, left them in their sadness and despairing nostalgia - and this thing seemed intent on giving them something else to mourn.

He splutters, searching for words, for a delay, for a chance. "The King destroyed things like you!"

 _"And now, the King is dead,"_ it spits. _"Long may he rot. Soon may he be forgotten. Such is the way of man. Your existence is a tower painted gold, balanced on a knife-edge. You idolise old heroes whose strength is beyond your reach, and forget the words they once told you that made you come alive. But you, you will not forget me, will you?"_

A tendril of darkness reaches toward him, and he scrabbles back on his hands, the tears streaming freely down his face, his vocal chords stuck. It's fingers are long, travelling across the ground like shadows cast from bare branches - nine thin, shivering shadows.

 _"We never forget what we hold closest to our darkest hearts,"_ it growls, its voice rising, becoming stronger, filling with malice. _"We never forget the pain and the hurt, the things that no-one can ever take away. You will forget your king and you will forget his deeds, but you will never forget those stories your grandfather whispered to you in the night, with the shadows dancing across his scars and the rain tapping, ever tapping, at his window. You will never forget me. You will never forget what it is to fear. I am always with your world - and with you."_

The formless mass of shadow leers at him. He can feel it scanning his face, the wet trickle between his legs, stopping at his hand, clutching the wooden necklace.

 _"That charm,"_ it breathes. _"It is so very precious to you, is it not? So very precious."_

It creeps forward, and a black tendril of shadow jets around his neck. Hallas' scream is caught in his throat. He presses his clammy hands to the ground and pushes, fights the grip that restrains him without touching, until he careens out of it. He doesn't register the snap of his necklace chain as he falls free to the ground. He feels the heavy press of darkness behind him, textured and thick like wet fabric, pulling at his legs. He thinks of the dead elf. That cannot be him. The shadow cannot seize his throat, his voice, his breath.

He pushes himself to his feet without a second's hesitation, stumbling and scrabbling until his feet find their balance. He flees from the shadow, running swifter than the cold, stormy wind and harder than the driving rain.

* * *

 **A/N:** _This was so fun to write. I loved this chapter. Our lovely Voice does so try to be manipulative, but I think it's lost its touch. I think you'll know the identity now, though I will name it next chapter!_

 _I'm also really enjoying fixing up the fourth chapter, which was the least edited of the lot. I hope to have it up before October 30th (slightly longer delay because of midterms! Gotta love the uni life…)._

 _Thank you for reading!_


	4. Part IV - Eldarion

**A/N:** _Welcome to Part IV, the second last part of this fic. I originally intended this fic to be only four parts, but the chapter ran long, so I have split it into two smaller parts that I will post near-_ _simultaneously._

 _Thank you especially for your kind reviews. I realise that for a couple of you my use of present tense was a bit of a bother - sorry about that, but you are correct in thinking that it's a personal preference of mine. For me, it lends immediacy. I definitely understand why for a Middle Earth story, however, folk would rather it be in past tense. I hope you'll still enjoy the rest of this story! Without further ado, read on…_

* * *

"I maintain that this was a poor decision on your part," Legolas chides, as their horses clop steadily through Osgiliath. The morning is fair, with the light and the wind still chilled from the early hour.

Eldarion just hums quietly and does not respond to the elf, not deigning to think that he has already made a poor decision within his first days as King, even if it a personal one. Away from the city, he feels more free, more alive, and more aware of what he and his world are now - _now_ , disregarding _before_.

He is wearing his proper crown, and it feels heavy and unpleasant, as if it might slip down over his eyes, or slip off from the back if he should look to the sky - but it is the crown of the king. He carries Andúril strapped to his saddle - a symbol, an heirloom, and nothing more. Just like the crown. _Just like the name._

He tries to clear the dark clouds of thought from his mind. He came on this journey to _not_ think about the weight he now bore on his shoulders, to not think about the fear and the weariness of grief, to not think about the warm, rough hands that had once held this beautiful sword bumping against his leg, that had used it to crush darkness itself, hands that now lay cold and still, folded over one another in a dark sarcophagus lying silent in the Hallows -

"You could have invited her," Legolas continues, sounding somewhat miffed. "Out of courtesy's sake if nothing else."

"I could have but I didn't," he says shortly. "This journey is for me. And with my return to the White city I will no longer be able to think of 'me', so I do it now. Besides, the answer would have been no," he reminds his friend.

Legolas simply sighs, and Eldarion tries not to let it exarcebate the tiny voice clinging to the back of his mind and whispering guilt in his ears.

The decision may not have been a kind one, but he is tired of being tired, of grieving and of laying his head on tear-stained pillows, dreaming dreams to try and wake both the dead that lie still and the dead that walk in the guise of the living. The thought sits cold and hardened in his heart.

His mother had been in their halls in the morning, slowly and laboriously eating a single tangerine that her lady's maid had convinced her to consume. He'd told her he was going to Ithilien with Legolas for a few days. She had frozen - looking panicked for a second - but the look had passed before he could question it.

"Come back soon," she had simply whispered, and returned to nibbling on her tangerine.

He intends to do just as much, of course. Go to Ithilien for just a few sunrises, relax in the forests, practice his Elvish - of which few in Minas Tirith spoke now, save for his parents. _Save for_ naneth _only,_ he reminds himself.

Barahir - his steward, and Prince of Ithilien - would not yet return to the realm he presided over, not until Eldarion's place on the throne was fully settled and the first week of mourning was over. However, he had seemed relieved that the new King was going away for a little while. "It will do your soul good," he had said. "We all need you whole and hale, for what comes next."

For what comes next. _What in Erú's name comes next?_

* * *

Once they have passed through the city, the horses break into a canter, and within a half hour, they are at the borders of Ithilien. The two elves manning the road bow low in respect to the King; with practised timing and a confident nod, he bids them rise. At least he is fluent in the motions, if not the mind, of a King.

 _"Gi suilon Aran Eldarion; hîr nîn Legolas,"_ greets the red-headed guard, nodding to each lord in turn.

 _"Suilad, Malgelir,"_ Legolas greets, with a wide smile. Eldarion can feel it too - an infectious sense of liberation and joy that floats out towards them from the fragrant forests.

"I assume these borders have been quiet, Thalion?" the elven prince asks lightly, addressing the dark-haired guard.

"Very much so, my lord," replies Thalion. "Although we received word in the night, of some trouble on the eastern border."

A shadows descends quick and dark over Legolas' face. "The _eastern_ border?"

"We were also not expecting such a report, my lord," admits Malgelir. Eldarion, too, is mildly surprised. He had known of scuffles springing up in the South and sometimes the North, long ago when he was but a few years old, at a time when they were still subduing the Easterlings and the Haradrim. But those wars were long since fought.

"What kind of trouble?" Legolas demands.

"A boy," begins Thalion, "from Minas Tirith, came running back towards the flets in the central part of the forest. It was during the last minutes of dusk - he'd wandered very far from the encampments during the day. It took a long time to comfort him until he was able to speak. He spoke of some shadow creature that attempted to harm him."

Eldarion's interest piques immensely. "From _Minas Tirith?_ What was he doing here, at a a time such as this? _"_

"He came into the forest yesterday afternoon," he responds, "intending to reside here for a few days at the most. He seemed to be trying to escape the grief of the city - though I suspect it is because he's too young to understand it," Thalion adds hastily.

There's no need to clarify - Eldarion understands well enough the boy's desire to flee sorrow; and he also understands, though with reticence, that the youth of Gondor, growing up in his father's peace, could hardly be forced to understand gratitude for such a nebulous idea as an old war hero.

"They would have had to pass over the Ephel Dúath," Legolas muses, "if our guards on the other borders did not catch them."

Malgelir hesitates, and then speaks. "My liege, it was not a troop or even a raiding party - the boy says there was just the one."

"He saw it?" Eldarion asks.

Malgelir gives a short nod.

"And what exactly did he say he saw?"

"He does not know, my king."

Eldarion exchanges a glance with Legolas. This may or may not be a test - either way, it will not go unheeded. He nods to the two guards. "Please take us to meet him."

* * *

"It was a shadow, my lord," the boy mumbles. "A living, breathing shadow."

He crouches, hunched and timid, on furs and under blankets, a golden drink in his hand curling steam in the cool air.

Eldarion sits upon a stool some feet in front of the boy, contemplating. He glances over to Legolas, conversing with his kinsmen on the other end of the flet, and then back to the boy. He had been introduced as Hallas by the elves here in the centre of the forest, who had been looking after him.

"And it attacked you without warning?" he asks.

The boy shakes his head. "It…it spoke to me first, my lord," he says. "Asked me things…said - said horrible things about the kingdom." He looks to the ground then, refusing to meet Eldarion's eyes his lips pressed thin and chin trembling ceaselessly.

"What made it want to hurt you?

"I…I did not do what it wanted me to do," he whispers. "It wanted me to bring its bitter words back to Minas Tirith. To get the other boys to come and speak to it. I didn't know. I didn't know until he said it," he adds hastily.

Whether it comes from the boy or the shadow, the truth of proposed treason sinks like a heavy stone in Eldarion's gut. For a moment, he forgets the cold grip of weariness that remains, lurking on his shoulders; and he understands the threat as only a king would.

"Whatever it is wants to corrupt the kingdom," he tells Hallas. "It would be a fate wore than death."

The boy nods once, and does not lift his eyes from his boots. Eldarion can tell that this is as much as he will learn.

He rises, to see Legolas approaching him. His eyes are clouded with worry and thought, his brows furrowed.

When he is comes side by side, he speaks low, such that only Eldarion can hear. "The scouts found a body at the location the boy described - one of the new recruits to the march-wardens," he says. "He'd been dead for about a day. They went in to retrieve him, but say there was oppressive presence in the clearing, especially in a cave on its edge."

Eldarion feels a pang of pity and sadness; one of Legolas' subjects, dead on this land. It had been three generations since Elessar's first steward, Faramir, had opened the forests to Legolas and his people to heal and nurture and dwell. Three generations of peace and healing, ruptured.

"What was the cause of death?"

Legolas shakes his head. "They do not know. His skin was blackened around the neck, and there were leaves and mud clogging his throat."

"Leaves and mud?" Eldarion frowns, his mouth twisting down into a perturbed grimace.

Legolas shrugs. "Suffocation, though I don't know why they attempted it in such a way."

Eldarion ponders for a moment. "Did your men go in to inspect the cave, and the rest of the clearing?"

"They set up a guard around it, but are waiting for my instruction," Legolas admits. "It is too close to the Mountains of Shadow, and all of us here have lived long enough to remember when evil lived actively on the other side of them. It makes them reticent to press on."

An unwanted shiver steals up Eldarion's spine. "Whether or not this 'shadow' creature was real or perceived, we ought to investigate," Hallas murmurs. "There was a death in Ithilen when there shouldn't have been. We need to learn the cause."

"Agreed," Legolas nods. "Will you stay here?"

But Eldarion is already rising. "Let me strap my sword to my belt - then we shall depart."

* * *

 **A/N:** _I do feel that I may have lost the plot a bit with Eldarion's character in the first part of this chapter; but I think it came back to me by the end, and definitely by the second half (Part V). It should be up within the next half hour._

 _Thank you for reading - one more to go!_


	5. Part V - Eldarion

**A/N:** _Welcome to Part V of this fic, and the last chapter. Thank you for joining me on the journey!_

* * *

The horses are jittery as Eldarion, Legolas and a few march-wardens make their way up the slopes in eastern Ithilien. Eldarion places a soothing hand on the neck of his horse, a black mare with a white star on her forehead, as she tosses her head yet again in discomfort.

 _"Îdh, meldis-nîn,"_ he mutters, recalling the way his father used to calm his own stallion. He feels it too, however - a strange ripple in the fabric of the forest, something disjointed and out of place.

It is late morning now, and the sun is almost directly overhead, but here, the trees feel so close, every minute shadow pressing just a little closer than it should. There is stillness; the sound of birds comes only from behind them.

"This feels wrong," Legolas whispers, coming up beside him, giving an unneeded voice to what all can feel.

As they come upon a rise in the ground, one of the wardens calls quietly to the group, "It is just head."

Eldarion sees a wide clearing, with light filtering down golden into it from the trees above. On the far end, the rock rises up out of the foothills of the mountain range, displaying a yawning cleft in the rock.

"He had been hiding the body inside there," Legolas mutters, nodding towards it, and Eldarion suppresses a shudder.

The group pause at the edge of the clearing, looking in. Not a sound; not a single sensation - and that in itself suggests a doom within the hearts of each and every one of them.

Eldarion swallows heavily, and then dismounts his horse with a _thump_ onto the hard earth.

"Would it not be wiser to stay on your horse, _your highness_?" Legolas asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Not to worry, _my lord,_ " he says, with a small smile, acutely aware of the tension among the other riders and keen to diffuse to. "The horses of our noble house always avail us. If trouble should arise, she'll run in and kick in the head of the assailant without my asking."

As though she understands, his mare neighs and shakes her ears, and amongst the group, shoulders relax and mouths allow themselves to not be so stern. Legolas still turns his head skeptically, but then seems to give up. He walks forward to meet Eldarion where he stands close to the centre of the clearing, instructing his wardens to keep close.

"Your horses may avail you," he sniffs. "But I shall stay on mine all the same."

Eldarion rolls his eyes, and then paces slowly to scan around the clearing for the offending shadow creature. The ground beneath his Eldarion boots is still soft from last night's rain. The leaves squish, mushy and dark with their death, beneath his fine boots. Not a sound - not a whisper - but just that slow, soft, silent press of shadow, waiting for the King to cave so they may come out and play.

He breathes deeply, quenching the unnerved roiling in his stomach.

"Show yourself," he calls out to nothing, "you who have been terrorising travellers on this route."

There is a low, slow gust of wind in the trees, and for a second the light dims, as though something had passed overhead. He turns round, a feeling of dread certainty in his gut - _it is here._ He looks over to a group of almost-bare _lebethron_.

Then he sees it - a shadow, small and hunched, clinging to the branches of one of the trees. Its shape is slender and small, like some fae creature, but it is weak and bent and mangled. It clutches the top branches with nine long thin shadows that could be fingers. As it slips down to lurk in the cleft of a tree, sniffling and shuffling, it leaves faint, dark marks on the bark. It emanates anger, despair, defeat. Eldarion feels no fear when he looks upon the tiny, crippled creature - only pity tinged with disgust.

 _"Look upon me, then,"_ it hisses. He tries not to register surprise at it's strange, horrible voice.

"I am Eldarion," he announces, loud and firm. "son of Aragorn of the House of Telcontar, High King of the -"

 _"I know who you are,"_ it growls. _"You reek of his blood."_ It makes a sound as though spitting.

Eldarion tries to ignore the annoyance prickling his skin. "Do you have a name?"

 _"I have had many."_

"What do you carry now?"

 _"Nothing."_

"And before?"

It hums quietly - the sound is like wind whistling through bare branches. _"I was about to suggest you ask your father,"_ it says, _"but I suppose you cannot do that, can you?"_

The gleeful malice in its voice cuts Eldarion like a knife.

"What are you, creature?" he hisses.

 _"What are you?"_ it says, its tone mocking. _"A would be king with a crown that doesn't fit, bearer of a foul sword that isn't his."_

"What happened to your body, beast?"

 _"What happened to yours?"_ it rebuts, childlike and violent. _"Shadows under your eyes, sallow face…have you been crying, little boy? You have my most sincere condolences."_

"Enough!" He erupts. The creature's words are like violent blows against his resolve; it's snide cruelty hurts him almost physically. Its ceaseless questions turned back upon him are beginning to drive him beyond frustration. He breathes deeply - remembers what his father told him, about quelling anger among those who speak to him without sense or fairness or cooperation.

"Whatever enmity you have for my father," he says coolly, "part with it now. He is dead, and you have no object for it."

 _"The strength of the forsaken, is that we are most adept at finding such an object. It is imperative."_

"It is pitiful." The creature is alarmingly self-aware of its sorry state - and yet so deluded in its awareness, of what it means to be as obviously downtrodden as it is.

"Why did you kill the march-warden?" demands Legolas, abruptly. His eyes are strained and his voice is touched with poorly hidden contempt.

The shadow lets out a wheezing, huffing noise, that might be a laugh. _"_ Gi suilon _, elfling. It has been too long."_

"We have never met."

 _"Haven't we? Did you not break upon my Black Gate with your dead King, all those years and years ago? Did your Halfling friends not triumph over my mountain? Don't tell me you've forgotten me already. I remember all of you."_

Eldarion watches as Legolas' eyes fill with bewilderment, and then understanding, and then horror. As if sensing it, his horse whinnies and stamps, and the shadow exudes a sense of terrible, chilling satisfaction, one that raises the hairs on Eldarion's neck.

"This cannot be," the elf prince whispers, staring at the shadow, his hand drifting to the knife on his belt. "It's not possible."

 _"A mistake of belief that so many make,"_ the creature laments.

"You lie. The Ring…" Legolas trails off, and the understanding dawns swiftly upon Eldarion then. A fragment of darkness, weak and bitter, dwelling in the shadow of the former Ephel Dúaph, harassing the young and the weak, clutching the tree with nine fingers, a shadow with a Black Gate and a mountain, with a disdain for his father and his father's sword, a shadow that instills fear by its very presence -

"No…" he breathes, clutching the scabbard of his sword.

 _"Why do you despair?"_ it spits bitterly. _"You should be happy to see me in such a state. Congratulate yourself."_

Eldarion opens his mouth to speak, and cannot for a few moments - but he remembers his diplomatic training, the grounding his father taught him, and responds, "There is nothing to congratulate for doing what is right."

 _"So noble,"_ it scoffs.

"Don't patronise me, Sauron, and I won't patronise you." The name tastes foul on his tongue, but he relishes the way the figure seems to hunch and shrink.

 _"Do not call me that,"_ he mutters.

"Would you prefer The Abhorred?" he prods, emboldened. "The Deceiver?"

"Eldarion," Legolas cautions.

But Eldarion needs the final word. "A broken shadow of a spirit with nothing to his name - that is what you are called now. Nameless and faceless."

And for the first time, the voice - the shadow that is Sauron - does not reply.

Eldarion's heart hurts with a terrible sensation, like betrayal, like denial, a sensation too similar to grief. This, his father's greatest work, the saving and salvaging and rebuilding of the kingdoms of the west, the triumph of light and freedom over darkness and tyranny - now his father was dead and this monstrosity remained. These old ghosts remained to haunt another day in another age. The work was not finished.

 _"You understand legacy, do you not, little boy?"_ Sauron whispers suddenly, drawing Eldarion's attention back from its identity to its words. _"You are a king, with a kingdom and a name. Your father and your elf-friend, the people sing songs about them and their heroic violence from another age. What memory is left for me to hold to?"_

"If memory is your only anchor, then you are lost. You've lost your ring and now you lose yourself."

 _"It is a fate worse than death, to not be remembered,"_ he mumbles, with a tone that begs pity. Eldarion will not deign to tolerate it.

"We did not defeat you to be remembered," he says, feeling his mother's love swell inside him and her blood rush through his veins. "And that has been a good thing for our souls, never mind our name. Truly - what have you done to your soul?"

There is a moment's pause, before Sauron replies.

 _"There is no more I am capable of, than to create and do and create and do until there is nothing left."_ With surprise Eldarion, perceives the acute anger and despair and bitterness the former Dark Lord is trying to mask.

 _"I am one with this fate now,"_ he goes on. _"I will dwell here, always, here where the shadows lie through their teeth and remain, nameless and wordless, in the forgotten places of the world."_

"Do so, then," Eldarion says, quiet but firm. "I'll make sure my house remains, too, standing tall somewhere the light can glow upon its towers, and illuminate marble streets and mithril gates. Perhaps then, you shall cease your intrusion into peace, once and for all."

A low growl emanates from the shadow of Sauron. Suddenly it lurches out of the tree, barreling uncontrolled and towards Eldarion. He draws Andúril swiftly from its scabbard, and Sauron careens into the flat of the blade. He shrieks, a horrible sound that pierces Eldarion's eardrums and has the elves pressing their hands over their ears.

The small, shadowy spirit falls to the forest floor, whimpering and sniffling and shuffling around, letting off strings of curses in tongues older than the world itself. Stumbling, it flees the clearing, hitting trees and branches as it moves, trying to remain upright.

 _"Daro!"_ Legolas commands one of his soldiers, who had been making to pursue him. "Not yet."

Eldarion watches, heart pumping hard and fast in his chest, as the shadow fades from view and the light slowly returns to the clearing - light that in its absence was not known, but with the darkness fled, now shines out bright and clear, memorable and precious.

* * *

"Why does he strike now?" Eldarion asks, as they trot steadily back to the central Elven settlement in Ithilien, where Legolas resides.

"Perhaps because he has gathered enough strength," the elf says absently, "though he remains incredibly weak."

He is silent thereafter, and Eldarion is lost in his bewildered thought. They arrive at their destination with very good time, and dismount, stable hands coming over to take their horses.

As they walk swiftly towards Legolas' flet, the elf prince stops abruptly, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. "I cannot sail," he blurts out.

Eldarion stares at him. "Legolas -"

"The Fellowship was made to destroy the threat of Mordor," he says, shaking his head vehemently. "Here Sauron is still - alive and capable of action. No, as long as even one of us is still here, the Fellowship is not ended. I do not care how small he is now. He killed one of our people and threatened another."

Eldarion does not know what to say - only knowing that his friend must be feeling more devastated than even he is, at this horrible truth of what should have just been the nightmare visions of a young, lost boy.

"Then what will you do?" he asks.

"I do not know. You are the High King - this is your realm. It is your will to do anything that matters. But I…"

"We need to speak to someone," Eldarion interjects, sensing the helplessness in lieu of despair. "Someone who knows the ways of creatures such as he, who knows the history and the lore."

"They have long since sailed." He shakes his head. "I need to go speak to my father. And Celeborn remains in Rivendell, yes?"

"He does - as do my uncles. I will take myself and my mother there."

"No, let me go. You have had the crown for five days," Legolas says gently, speaking again before Eldarion can express the protest forming in his mouth. "You need to stay here and consolidate the kingdom. Join us in Rivendell later. I'll convince my father to assemble a council."

"Of who?"

"Whoever's left."

* * *

That evening, the elves hold a feast for the king. It is a good distraction for all who had heard of or witnessed the incident at the border. He and Legolas had been sure to instruct the wardens to quell any and all suspicions - for panic is a most potent fuel for chaos.

They dine in a great clearing, under the bright stars passing overhead. The lamps are warm and the food is good, and the wine that the elves have brought from their homeland is sweet and heady. As the night wears on and the music begins, the dancers move from their seats to stamp and clap and spin over the grass. Eldarion wanders among those that remain, exchanging small words of kindness and good humour. His father had taught him the wisdom of such a practice - _speak to all whom you can, for it is their lives you bear upon your shoulders, and our burdens only cease to be burdens when we truly understand them._

It is in doing this that he reencounters Hallas, sitting among a group of curious elflings.

"Your majesty!" he says, rising and bowing. The elflings too, stand, but Eldarion laughs and holds out a gentle hand.

"Please, my good children," he says kindly. "We will have ample time for such pleasantries when you are older. Return to your play!"

With wide smiles, the gleefully acquiesce. Hallas smiles at them, but steps quietly away from the group. He bows again before his king, before speaking the question Eldarion had been waiting for him to ask.

"Did you go to the border, your majesty?"

Eldarion nods. "I did."

"And…" Hallas bites his lip. "My lord, what was the shadow creature?"

"A being older than this world," he says, slow and careful, locking his eyes to be sure the gravitas is not lost on the boy. "The same being whose armies destroyed Osgiliath and laid siege to Minas Tirith, during the war your grandfathers fought in. It was King Elessar who helped destroy this creature."

"I never knew, my lord," Hallas whispers, looking to his feet. "I never knew."

And with those words, it finally clicks in place for Eldarion. Looking at the baffled, frightened boy in front of him, the boy he presides over, and the boys parents, and their friends, and their lords - he understands. Shadow persists greater than light. It floods the dark corners of ignorance and the blind spots of comfort. Light must live silently in times like these - but it must live, and it must live through him.

Now, the work must continue.

* * *

 **A/N:** _So, I hope you enjoyed the fic! I liked writing Eldarion, and it was incredibly fun to explore a post-LotR Sauron (minus the existential questions about where/what he is now, which hurt both my head and my heart)._

 _Part of the reason Sauron's spirit-shadow appears so small and inconsequential to Eldarion is the strength - I feel - that was imbued with him by both his blood and his upbringing; and Sauron terrified Hallas so much, because as a person, he is much weaker. I think the encounter was a wake-up call and affirmation for both characters. But that's just me!_

 _And yes, Legolas had a Captain Obvious moment. Couldn't resist._

 _I know that I introduced lots of interesting things that could possibly be catalysts for a great deal more story, but in my heart of hearts, don't think I shall ever explore this premise further. However, anything can happen!_

 _Once again, I hope you enjoyed the fic. Thank you so much for reading!_

 _Much love,_

 _Fernstrike_


End file.
